


Mornings

by cruisedirector



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M, Present Tense, Romance, Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-02
Updated: 2002-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-06 23:24:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruisedirector/pseuds/cruisedirector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A highly gratuitous, drippy vignette in more ways than one. I did make the big doofus keep his mouth shut for a change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mornings

**Author's Note:**

> This was sort of inspired by lauawill's "Joy."

He wakes in confusion to the sound of an alarm. The room is pitch black save for the stars beyond the viewport. As his dreams fade, he finds himself temporarily without memories--where he is, how he got there. His leg has fallen asleep from some weight resting on it, the sheet feels damp under his hip. And a warm shape lies beside him in the bed, draped half over him, stretching.

"Ohhhhhhh," it groans plaintively.

It is a she. His arms tighten around her before he becomes capable of conscious thought. Instinct dictates his actions: keep her with him, save the moment. The lights are already coming up, half-illumination, dragging him towards clarity.

"We have got to find a way to get a bigger bed in here," his naked companion slurs through a cloud of her hair.

Kathryn. That's who shares his bed. As his recall returns, of the night before and nights before that, love after years of longing, joy fills him like a heat source. Lifting his head, he regards her with a buoyant smile.

She raises an eyebrow in mock-disapproval, warning him throatily, "Don't even think about it."

He can't help it. His leg and the arm he slept on still feel somewhat numb, but other parts of his body are awake and growing ever more alert. He rolls slightly to show her.

"Put that thing away!" Her good humor is ill-disguised. "I'm tired and I have to be at work in twenty minutes." She grabs the top sheet and wraps it around the appendage pointing at her so that she can't see it, squeezing slightly. He twitches in her hands.

"Oh, don't start with me, Chakotay..."

She's already laughing when he rolls on top of her, pressing her down for a kiss. Her lips open without pressure, welcoming him, though both their mouths are sticky. His arms encircle her and he flips over, dragging her weight over his, so that her hair falls around his face and her legs part to balance her on his torso.

When she comes up for air, she whispers, "We really have to stop this. I was late two days ago. People are starting to notice."

That's not really true. They assume she's off in another department, taking care of official business. Of anyone on the ship, she's the person least accountable to timetables; when she isn't present she's missed, but her motives are never questioned.

She starts to wriggle as if she would slide off him, but in the process of sitting up, her damp bottom encounters his erection.

"I'm too sore," she moans.

He sits up beneath her, knocking her backwards so that her hair spills across his calves and she has to shift her legs to avoid getting bent double. While she extricates herself, he slides out from under and crouches over her, kissing her belly just above the matted hair covering her pubic bone. "Don't you dare--ooh!" she squeals as his mouth suddenly drops lower, encountering a hot bubble of moisture that spreads over his lips and down his chin at her squirming.

She smells faintly of sex from the night before, dry and musty in the hairs where his nose is buried, but her own hot scent grows stronger until it fills his nostrils. The flesh beneath feels a little puckered, raw, so he's very gentle with his tongue, concentrating on the tip of the most sensitive point until she practically screams. Her head hangs off the bottom of the bed, fingers clenching the sheet at her side.

"I'm going to wet the bed if you don't get it over with," she gasps.

As he moves down in the bed and hauls her back onto the mattress, he shifts her onto her side, facing him, so that she can direct him. Sometimes she really is too sore, she'll walk stiffly all morning, and he doesn't want to hurt her even though she claims that it's worth it.

This doesn't seem to be one of those mornings, however. She reaches for him as he comes into range, pulling him to her as her legs part around his body. He enters her easily, a smooth movement while she lets out a low cry which sounds less like pain than the ache of desire. He doesn't thrust right away, not wanting to risk friction; instead he works a hand between them until his thumb's on the right spot. It traces tiny circles until she's convulsing, her leg jerking in the air, head tossing as she howls.

When she relaxes into a passive, sighing heap, he rolls her back under him. She tightens her muscles rhythmically over and over while he tries to match her breathing. It's a game they've played many times: she'll start panting, or slow all the way down, until eventually he can't stand it anymore and must start sliding in and out of her, pinning her to the bed. She likes it when he takes her like that after he's given her an orgasm or two. Sometimes he can't help himself and goes off with her, or even before, but most mornings he can wait. Simultaneity is rarely her goal; she enjoys being lucid when he comes so she can watch him, and try to figure out exactly what drives him over the edge.

This particular morning she's experimenting with clenching and releasing her buttocks while he thrusts, and scraping her fingernails across the back of his neck. It doesn't take much, in the mornings. He stops and breathes and rocks, feeling the tightening as pressure builds in his groin, then when pleasure explodes through him and overflows, he dives as deep as he can into her, crushing her breath out. She arches and purrs in satisfaction as he slides to rest. They hold each other, his body like a cocoon over hers, and his breath moistens her hair until the alarm chimes again.

"We're going to be really late if we don't move," she sighs.

Shifting his weight to the side, he lets her wiggle out from under him. She swings her legs over the side of the bed, then turns back to look at him with a half-smile.

"Good morning, Chakotay."

"Good morning, Kathryn."

They are the first words out of his mouth, that morning and every morning.


End file.
